


The Curse Of The Pharaoh

by GuardianOfTheGates



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Anachronistic Technology, Ancient Egypt, Canon Typical Attitudes Towards The Fair Sex, Gen, M/M, Steampunk, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianOfTheGates/pseuds/GuardianOfTheGates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a logical man who decidedly does not believe in curses. But he's about to learn the hard way there are more things in Heaven and Earth then are dreamt of in his philosophy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> JWP prompt #4: Travel and foreign lands. Not a crossover, but I've borrowed certain elements from The Mummy Returns. 
> 
>  
> 
> ***

In what I am inclined to believe was nothing less than some devilish form of retribution for my successful retrieval of Lady Constance Withers from the clutches of a gang of Egyptian artifact smugglers, her husband, Sir Eustace, sent Watson and I an invitation to a gala to be hosted in celebration of her safe return. The doctor assured me the invite was nothing more diabolical than the token of an elated man’s gratitude, though how on earth a fellow can claim greater happiness in the company of a woman who chattered so incessantly I should be prepared to swear her face at one point tinged blue from deprivation of oxygen, is a mystery beyond even my comprehension.

Be that as it may, my companion insisted we attend, and thusly petitioned, I relented, if for no other reason than Sir Eustace was a private collector whose archaeological acquisitions rivaled even that of the British Museum, and meant to hold one of those morbid mummy unrollings the public seem to hold in such favour. 

This blighted event certainly qualified as punishment, for upon its being made known my status was that of a bachelor, never-mind I have never prefixed it with the adjective ‘eligible’, the flocks of giggling, coquettish, and altogether insufferably forward members of the fair sex clamped onto my person more tenaciously than Victor Trevor’s bull terrier once froze onto my ankle. Watson’s condition as a widower, at least, granted him some small measure of peace; yet for some unfathomable reason he appeared to delight in the company of those eyelash-batting ladies who asked an interminable number of questions regarding his fanciful accounts of my methods.

Inevitably, when his admirers get worked up into a dither over his embellishment of our cases, unwanted attentions that have naught to do with the science of analysis and deduction are prone to ensue. In conjunction with the silly, twittering females near shocking me into apoplexy with their whispered nothings in my ear, had not Sir Eustace himself come to the rescue that very moment, it is likely I should have taken drastic measures of the sort that cause the doctor to lecture me hotly until such time as sufficient appeasements are made. 

The man in question was keen to show us his most recent collection of Egyptian artifacts from the tomb of Ramesses The Great, whose safe return I had also been responsible for. The venture was not without some interest, but the prospect of detaching myself from the limpets of society held the greater appeal. 

Sir Eustace’s collection room was adorned in dark wood paneling and rich claret velvets, the picture of a tasteful aristocratic study. Several other men whose conversation indicated they were enthusiasts in the field of Egyptian archaeology were already present, smoking cigars and nursing brandies as they expounded on the inherent similarities between hieratic and hieroglyphic scripts. Others were engaged in openly admiring a tabletop cluttered with stone statuettes, many of which retained remnants of their original paints. 

One device in particular caught my eye. 

At first glance, it strongly impressed upon the observer how it was simply an ordinary, if magnificently carved, bracelet. Solid gold, it weighed no less than a brick of lead, its copious proportions obviously making it clear it was meant for the wider wrist of a man. It was adorned with a scorpion whose eyes were rubies and stinger a diamond, and to either side were carved a series of hieroglyphs. Herein lie the interest, for upon closer inspection one could just discern they were not mere decorative carvings, but were of a mechanical nature. Sir Eustace delighted in showing us how, when the bracelet was opened, the hieroglyphs, by the power of what he supposed to be an intricate inner network of cogs and gears, would shift and turn out of place, then return to their former positions when the bracelet was again clicked shut.

Of course, the Scorpion Bracelet of Ramesses was subject to the obligatory curse of ‘whomsoever weareth this outside the Pharaoh’s tomb shall be cursed to a living death’, unless, that is, they were to take advantage of the curse loophole in the form of a key, which would unlock the bracelet from the wearer’s wrist, thereby rendering the curse, such as it was, null and void. Not a very frightful curse, then, or one apt to discourage tomb robbers.

Whilst my curiosity was piqued only by the scientifically advanced internal mechanisms, Watson was transfixed by its weight and splendour. When he held the bracelet aloft, it caught the electric lighting just so, and even I had to admit whoever designed it must have been a master of his trade. 

Taking care not to touch the unclasped sides so as to inadvertently cause it to clasp about his wrist, Watson placed it on his arm for a lark, and just as he made some remark about how deucedly heavy the thing was, Sir Eustace let out a cry of horror.

“For heaven’s sake man, you mustn’t wear the bracelet!”

Abashed at having caused our host no little discomfort, he made his apologies and was already sliding it off his arm when, of its own volition, the bracelet snapped shut, causing the doctor to let out a howl of pain and fall to his knees. 

“Watson!” I flew to his side, kneeling before him as he desperately clutched at the bracelet.

“Poison…” he finally managed, though somewhat breathlessly. “A poison dart… inside the bracelet…stuck me when… when it closed around my arm.”

His pallor was turning quite ashen, and the veins in his hand protruded grotesquely, the blood within them darkening to a shade of grey as the poison flowed freely through his bloodstream. Why the logical course of action did not at first occur to me remains to be seen, yet at that moment I could think only of wrenching that infernal thing off my companion’s arm

“By Jove, the curse,” Sir Eustace breathed, backing away from Watson as though millennia old Pharaonic curses were contagious. Meanwhile, the small gathering present had abandoned their cigars to assist me with the removal of the bracelet.

“It cannot be pried off,” Sir Eustace found his voice. “It locks around the wearer’s arm, and nothing can open it, save for the key.”

“Then give me the key!” I shouted, though not in as many words or anything that might be repeated in the presence of a lady. 

“I am afraid that will be quite impossible.” 

Snarling, I leapt up and clutched him by the lapels demanding why he should keep the very elixir of life from a man who slowly dying by increments. 

“If it were in my power to do, I should surely help your friend, but you must understand… the key remains in the tomb of Ramesses. It is in Egypt, Mr Holmes.”

I went rigid with sudden understanding. My dearest friend lay writhing on the carpet, his only hope for survival thousands of miles away, buried in the desert sands. 

There was nothing else for it.

“Then we leave for Egypt to-night.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is a logical man who decidedly does not believe in curses. But he's about to learn the hard way there are more things in Heaven and Earth then are dreamt of in his philosophy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupidly belated entry For Watson's Woes July promptfest
> 
> Prompt #5: Note to self
> 
> ***

“It would be dishonorable of me to have refused you this request, after what you did for my Constance,” said Sir Eustace, taking me aside after we had bundled Watson’s trembling form into his private brougham, “but I cannot help but think you get your hopes up on an impossibility. No anti-venom in the world can cure him, Mr Holmes. The bracelet poisons the blood, and only by removing it within three days can his life be spared.”

“Then I shall do so.”

“I fear you will never reach the land of the Pharaohs in time, not even with Professor Flaversham’s…invention.”

“That remains to be seen.” I slid into the seat beside Watson, who scarce had the strength to look up at my approach. He seemed to be in the grip of some fever, for all his cheeks were flushed and his eyes shone with unnatural brightness. With a nod of unspoken thanks to the baronet for the loaning us the use of his personal carriage and providing me with the name of the one man in all of England who’d the power to help my Watson, I struck my walking stick on the roof and we were off at a brisk gallop into the night.

***

“Holmes…” the weak voice wafted from the corner, where my friend had huddled into himself shortly after our departure. We rattled along Tower Bridge now, well en route to our destination, yet I could not help but grow increasingly restless and agitated. “Holmes,” a cold, clammy hand found my own, “I made my peace with death on the battlefields of Afghanistan.”

Had he meant this to be some reassurance on my behalf, I regret to say the intended effect was not achieved. “Get your rest, old fellow.” I gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze and draped my cloak over his shoulders, for he could not stop shivering. 

“I mean it, Holmes. If the worst happens, I won’t have you blaming yourself,” said he through chattering teeth. 

“Once Professor Flaversham gets us to Egypt, this will all be a bad memory.”

“I’ll be gone before we are halfway there.”

“Watson. This pessimistic streak of yours is really very bothersome.”

He offered me a sad smile which had upon me the most unsettling effect, as though it clamped something within my chest in a merciless vice. Yet it must have been only the consequence of so bumpy a ride as we left the bridge and clattered down a lane rife with broken, disjointed cobblestones that fairly displaced my innards before we came to a grinding halt before a vast brick structure which I immediately recognised as the St Thomas Street viaducts. 

A pool of dim illumination from a single, flickering gas lamp adjacent to an entryway whose door hanged precariously off its hinges, was our sole source of light. Through this dubious threshold the driver led us, with instructions to try the third tunnel from the left before he himself made a hasty departure. Watson, in my estimation, remained too weakened to continue onwards, but he’d enough strength left in him to debate the issue hotly, demanding to venture once more unto the breach, as it were, even as he fisted my shirt for all he was worth, his head lolling onto my shoulder while denying vehemently my accusations he was in no state to walk anywhere. 

Discretion being the better part of valour, I finally relented, for it is one thing to win an argument with an old campaigner - but when that old campaigner also happens to be a Scotchman, woe to he provokes that particular sleeping dog.

Equal parts carrying and dragging my friend, we slogged down the intended course; a wet, odiferous tunnel that reeked of mildew and other, less fragrant aromas. It led into a warehouse lit by hanging lanterns swinging with that very same gust of cool, fresh air that must have made living here more bearable a proposition for the man we sought. 

We were not long in finding him, for the rooms proportions were not relatively large, and the grey haired old man who stooped over a workbench cluttered with all manner of clockwork gadgets, loose springs and rusted gears, remained the only living being in sight. The entire facility, in fact, was littered from floor to ceiling with such mechanical contrivances, some no larger than the gold clockwork beetle prodding annoyingly at my bootlaces, to inventions in various stages of assembly, and were roughly the size of a four-wheeler cab. 

“Hallo, there,” he called, waving to us with oily spanner in hand. “What can I do for you fine gentlemen?” He stated this as though it were perfectly normal for a man to reside in a viaduct tunnel and receive midnight callers requesting his peculiar services.

“Sir Eustace Withers informs us,” I said, assisting Watson into a chair before he collapsed under the strain of holding himself upright, “that you’ve a means of transportation at your disposal that enables one to travel great distances in an abbreviated span of time.”

The inventor scratched his head, displacing the feathery tufts of hair attached to it, so that had he not appeared entirely unhinged before, this completed the effect.  
“Ah!” he cried in a sudden revelation. “You mean the aero-launch!”

The doctor and I exchanged bemused glances. Remarkably, that trifling gesture which demonstrated Watson’s cheerful outlook despite the hand of fate pushing so adamantly against him, relieved that unidentifiable tension in my chest, if only for an instant.

Professor Flaversham, meanwhile, scurried off into a veritable cavern of unused parts carelessly pitched to the wayside, where he was employed in clearing a path amidst the mountain of detritus. This task completed to his satisfaction, he summoned us to join him in the centre of disarray. With the doctor’s arm hefted around my shoulder, I veritably dragged his barely conscious form towards the interior of the clutter pile. 

“Well, what do you think?” 

I blinked in astonishment. Watson groaned and slumped further into my hold.

From Professer’s prideful grin, one might have thought the finest examples of the Queen’s golden dirigibles was on display, yet the miserable looking winged mechanism - that was some disastrous amalgamation of a moored tugboat and vampire bat, for it sprouted wings from the sides - seemed incapable of transporting us halfway up the street in a timely manner, much less a journey to the far ends of the earth with which we had less than seventy-two hours to reach.

“I have no intentions of traveling on that contraption.”

“No doubt it is perfectly safe.” I saw no harm in dissembling, considering the situation.

“All the same, Holmes, I would rather die in my own bed than on that.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow.” I waved away his concerns. “With Professor Flaversham at the helm, we can expect this…”

“Aero-launch,” the professor supplied.

“Yes, quite. Well, we can expect to be in Egypt long before this poisoned bracelet can do any permanent harm, is that not so?”

“Oh, she can have you halfway ‘round the world by this time to-morrow.”

I raised a dubious eyebrow. Watson formulated an uncouth remark that does not bear repeating.  
“She’s all yours, gents, if you’re ready.”

“We have never been more so. Come Watson.”

“It’s a death-trap, Holmes.”

“Nothing of the sort. She is solid as a rock,” said I, patting a rickety board. 

“Holmes!”

“Watson.”

“You are certain you know what you’re doing?” he finally relented, for his began to sway from the fatigue of fighting against this venom in his bloodstream. Though the prospect was daunting, it compared nothing to the icy tendrils squeezing my chest at the anticipation of losing the doctor, and I nodded with more confidence than I could lay claim to.

The professor was already at the helm, tinkering with a panel containing all manner of levers and gears. “I’ll just need to make some adjustments to the chronometer, and then you gents can be off.”

Something in his statement gave me pause. “You are not coming?”

“Oh, no. I’ve an automated Clydesdale to put the finishing touches on afore it’s ready to pull the Queen’s Royal steam-carriage. But she’s simple enough for a clever fellow to steer, and the three dimensional atlas- chronicer is better than any map.”

“Quite.”

I seated my burden in a secure corner, and wiped the perspiration, which decidedly did not contain traces of blood, from his brow. He gave me a thin smile, though even that small effort must have cost him dearly. His agitation over flying in this most bizarre machine was obviously going no little way to aggravate the tremours from that ghastly bracelet. I’d a mind to smash it to bits once we secured the key and had it removed from his wrist for good and all. 

At the rear of this workshop was situated a hatchway of sorts that the Professor was now engaged in opening, to reveal a stretch of cobbled courtyard beyond. 

I took hold of the helm, swallowed hard, and bestowed upon the doctor a reassuring nod. Then, pulling the most distinctive lever of the lot, made a mental note not to let slip the fact I’d no notion whatsoever how one went about flying this confounded thing.


End file.
